


Make-or-Break Days

by ryukoishida



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga)
Genre: M/M, Post-Anime, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2273463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's two years, four months, and eleven days later when Nezumi stumbles upon a box, labelled “For when you return”, in Shion’s room filled with hand-written notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make-or-Break Days

               There are days when Shion would feel close to being fine – almost as if the dark-haired, grey-eyed man has never existed in his life. On those days, he doesn't feel the need to write anything because he can talk about the incident with his mother without really talking about him. But it never sounds quite right, because in the stories Shion tells, he’s always there. Those days are few and far in between, however.   
  
               Most days, he just pretends Nezumi has gone on a very long journey with no end in sight. Shion doesn't know when he'll return – _if_ he'll return. So on those particular days, he would write Nezumi letters; these notes are no more than a recording of the everyday events that happened to him. In fact, they get kind of dull and repetitive after awhile, what with Shion telling him about the newest things he's learned once he's resumed his studies on ecology or what sort of pastries Karan has recently created. In between these mundane writings, Shion can't help but slip in a few lines of endearment towards the man who will never write back.                

               "I miss you"s and "Wish you're here with me"s and there are emotions that Shion can never find the right words to put on paper. Maybe it's precisely as Nezumi once said to him: his vocabulary is at the level of a chimpanzee’s.

                On days when Shion can pretend Nezumi will write back eventually, there's always hope: a tall youngster with black locks and leather jacket would look like him, but when he turns around, Shion realizes that the stranger's gestures are no where near as elegant as the actor would have been, or that the man has the wrong eye colour. And for a few seconds, his breathing becomes harsh, as if his lungs refuse to do what they're designed to, and Shion thinks, 'Maybe I should go.'  
  
               Until from a far away place within the depth of his mind, that familiar resonant voice capable of both dulcet tones and sharp sarcasm screams at him to live. So he does. Shion will always follow that voice, even if the owner is nowhere to be found.  
  
               Then, there are days when Shion just stops and ceases to be. Those don't happen too often either, but when they do, it's a grotesque, growling monster of anger, self-hatred, regret, and despair, and Shion has no outlet to release. Not like on his twelfth birthday when he could scream and roar freely into the swirling winds of the typhoon. He’s not a child anymore.

                This time, he _is_ the typhoon and the destruction his violent emotions wreck on his sanity sometimes makes Shion want to tear himself apart. He'd lock himself in his room for hours, staring blankly at walls, homework assignments all but neglected. An open notebook lies on his desk with ripped pages scattered haphazardly around his room.  
  
               Phrases like "I hate you!" and "Come back, you bastard!" and “Fuck expectations. Fuck feelings. Fuck you!” are written in jagged, angry capital letters that leave tears on the paper, and as the night goes on, the acidity gives way to weak furls of "Why won't you come when I call for you?" The scrunched up pages are collected the next day when his internal storm has passed for the time being, and Shion would place them into the box labelled "For when you return". The mundane notes go in that box, too, as if any day now, the recipient of these letters would come pick them up.  
  
-

                It’s two years, four months, and five days later when Nezumi sets eyes on Shion once more.

                He has been back to the rebuilt city of NO.6 a few days ago, his seemingly endless innate hatred for the once too perfect but corrupted community has dissipated over the years he’s been away. There’s still a dull ache deep in the recesses of his core, the flaring scarlet and remnant heat of his scar still a reminder everyday, buried beneath happier memories, but they rarely surface to rear its ugly head these days; he’s learned to keep that in check instead of letting it control him for the past few years.

                Everything’s different now. Nezumi sees the changes and improvements around him since the wall has fallen and he has walked away, leaving the boy he cares for too much with nothing but a kiss and a smile – a promise of reunion –  a little bittersweet on his lips.

                Nezumi has thought at the time that it would pass – that intense need to be there with him, to protect the white-haired boy – but he finds that that’s not it at all. Shion can defend himself just fine – the short period of time he spent at West Block has taught him that much – so what drives Nezumi towards and away from Shion simultaneously is not really a mystery after all.

                They are not enemies, but NO. 6 and what it represents still bring on too much bitterness and foul taste of past vengeance and pain in Nezumi’s mind for him to really forget. So, he chooses to leave.

                When he steps through the threshold of Karan’s bakery with a cautious glance around the little shop and his gaze settles on the woman behind the counter, Nezumi is startled, like he’s suddenly caught doing something he isn’t supposed to. The smell of warm pastries invades his nostrils, but it’s definitely a scent he can get used to. Somehow, it reminds him of that stormy night when Shion and he first met – the sweetness of the hot cocoa in a mug warmed his hands, but unknowingly, it had also began to melt the ice cage of his heart.  

               Dark charcoal eyes look up and Nezumi can see the resemblance in them – gentle but intelligent. They widen in recognition.

                "Nezumi-san?" She makes her way around the counter and towards him. Shion and Karan share the same eyes – not in colour, but in the way they're able to convey various feelings without making a sound; they are beautifully expressive.  
  
               "Karan-san," he nods his head in greeting, his posture straightened more than usual. Something about the woman makes Nezumi wants to do everything right, even though her smile holds nothing but warmth and gratitude. He really doesn't deserve this, especially after what he has put her through two years ago.  
  
               "I never thought I'd have the chance to say thank you to you face-to-face," she explains, her eyes a little red and she sniffs back a little chuckle. "Excuse this old woman and her sentimentality..."  
  
               "Not at all." Nezumi is hesitant; he's never good at this touchy-feely stuff, but there are words that needed to be said. "I'm sorry, about Shion and – and everything else. If I haven't barged into your son's room that night..." Nezumi certainly would have turned out to be a very different man, if he had lived: hateful, angry, cold and isolating himself from the rest of the world. He would have died.  
  
               "Never be sorry." In an instant, he's enveloped by Karan's arms.   
  
               'This must be what a mother's embrace feels like,' he thinks, trying to recall the feeling of his own mother's arms around him but can't, and rests his chin on Karan's head, his arms loosely encircling around her lithe body. Her frame seems so frail but to have everything taken from her and start a new life at Lost Town with almost nothing while single-handedly raising a child isn't something any one can do. Karan is strong, and Nezumi has a feeling that she's a woman he would not dare to cross in the future.  
  
               "You saved Shion's life, and you brought him back to me safe and sound. You don't need to apologize for anything, do you understand?" She pulls back and looks at him; her tone has been soft but fierce.  
  
               "Yes, ma'am," he replies immediately and lets his arms fall back to his side.  
  
               "Just 'Karan' is fine," she holds out her hand.  
  
               "Nezumi," he clasps his hand to hers in a slight squeeze.  
  
               "It's great to finally meet you," Karan tells him. "You're looking for Shion, aren't you?"  
  
               "Yes."  
  
               "I thought one of your mice companions would have informed you that Shion had moved into his own place last year since he resumed his studies."  
  
               "I see." Nezumi knows that, too, that there's only a small chance he'd find Shion here. He’s only decided to go to the bakery so that he can apologize to Karan properly; now that he's done what he has intended to, there's no reason for him to stay. He starts for the door.  
  
              "But he's supposed to come over and help me out after his classes are done," Karan adds. "Would you like to wait for him in the mean time?”

               “I should probably…” He turns around and is about to politely refuse, but Karan has taken out a piece of cherry cake and is preparing a pot of tea, a knowing smile gracing her face.

               Once again, he’s startled by the fondness of her expression; he’s not used to near strangers treating him so kindly. Shion was the one exception. Nezumi’s defence crumbles a little. “Yes, I’d like that.”

 

               The taste of tart cherries is still on his tongue when Nezumi sees him. A mob of silvery white hair glinting in the afternoon sunlight, Shion’s head is lowered to concentrate on the text on his e-reader device, not paying heed to the surroundings around him, let alone the man sitting just outside of the bakery with a cup of long cooled tea on the small round table.  
  
               Shion only looks up when he feels someone staring at him. For a second, he almost doesn't recognize the man he has dreamed and thought about for so many nights and days – isn't sure whether the Nezumi sitting before him is real or just a figment of his imagination. Shion had mistaken strangers for Nezumi so many times before that he wouldn't be surprised if it was the latter case.  
  
               But when Nezumi gets up and starts towards him, his steps uncertain, Shion realizes that his mind, despite being an exceptionally bright one, fails to do Nezumi any justice. Or maybe he has changed; it has been two years after all.  
  
               "Nezumi?" The syllables of his name ignite something within him and he can't quite name it. It's like that internal typhoon he experiences on the worst nights, except he can also feel the warmth and light of the sun struggling to shine through the thick, angry clouds. Shion doesn't know whether to cry or laugh, to hold him tight until it gets difficult to breathe or hit him until bruises bloom on his pale skin, to kiss him senseless or punch him in the face.  
  
              Shion can't decide which course of action he should take, so by the time Nezumi is standing in front of him – he can touch him if Shion just reaches out – he can only gaze back, crimson eyes as deviant yet earnest as the day they first met. There are words he wants to say but they won't come out; instead, hot tears blur his vision as he closes the rest of the distance between them, his e-reader and book bag clatter to the ground when he dig his fingers into the soft cloth of Nezumi’s scarf and pulls him in.

               “Sh-Shion?” Their noses almost touch. Their breaths hitch and mingle in the winter air.

               “Shut up,” he whispers, his voice so fragile that Nezumi almost misses it, but it rolls out of his tongue like broken glass and he doesn’t know that two little words can cut so deep. Shion shoves him roughly back and Nezumi stumbles as he gains back his footing. Heaving deep breaths, Shion glares back at the taller man, tears still trickling down his face, the faint red of his scar on his cheek made more prominent.

               “Where the hell have you been?” This is demanded in a louder voice. Seconds of silence pass by without either of them speaking – Nezumi unable to find his voice and Shion can’t trust himself to ask more. The fire in his eyes gradually softens, and when he pulls Nezumi towards himself again, the movement is more calm. He fists the material on Nezumi’s scarf so tightly that his knuckles whiten, and his frame is shaking as he places his forehead against the other man’s shoulder, cautiously at first, but when he’s taken in the fact that he is not an illusion, Shion leans in more, his weight a comfort and a reminder for Nezumi.

               Nezumi winds his fingers into Shion’s white locks, his eyes closed as he breathes him in. ‘I’m here,’ he wants to tell him, to assure him.

               “You’re really here,” Shion’s voice is muffled, but Nezumi feels the wonderment in the vibration of his words. The dark-haired man simply nods.

               And that’s that.

               There’s no explanation, and Shion knows better than to ask for one.

               Just like that night when the typhoon blew the strange boy into his room and introduced chaos into his life, this day, the mild but chilly breeze of November coaxes the same man back to Shion’s side without any warning.

               Though still slightly disbelieved, Shion welcomes Nezumi back with a shaky smile and fierce embrace.

 

-

 

              It's two years, six months, and eleven days later when Nezumi stumbles upon the box of letters labelled “For when you return”. Totally by accident, he would swear.

               Shion insists that Nezumi should stay at his apartment while he’s in NO.6, and the man finds no valid argument to reject his invitation. He has nowhere else to go in the city after all.

               For the first few weeks, they tip-toed around each other, being extra careful and polite, and it was awful. Nezumi wants nothing more than to hold Shion and reassure him that he won’t leave unless Shion instructs him to; yet, he also knows that he doesn’t have that right anymore.

               Karan has said that Nezumi saved Shion’s life, but Shion’s done the same for him, too – time and time again, Shion’s saved him from his internal demons. The boy’s stolen his heart long before Nezumi even realizes it and by then, it’s already too late.

            The late afternoon sun shines through the blinds of the living-room window, casting alternating stripes of light and shadow on the bookshelf that overtakes the entirety of the opposite wall. Nezumi is tidying the collection, which he is quite impressed with, to be honest, because he has thought that the boy would return to reading e-books the moment he’s back in the city with advanced technologies at the tip of his fingers. Most of the books are relatively new, but Shion has somehow gotten his hands on a few old volumes of classics as well, and every time Nezumi walks past the shelf stocked with books – though it is still a small number compared to the library he had back in West Block – the scent of paper and ink always envelops him like home.

            He can make NO.6 his home now, Nezumi thinks while absentmindedly rearranging some hardcovers, but Shion is already so organized that there really is no point in doing this. It’s just that waiting for Shion to return from university makes Nezumi antsy, for some reason. He just can’t sit still today. His hands need to be active while his mind wanders: it’s been nearly four months since Nezumi moves into this apartment, and not once did Shion ask why he’s decided to return after two years of absolute silence.

            He remembers the sixteen-year-old boy always bothering him with questions and demanding answers; Nezumi almost misses the enthusiastic, albeit annoying, inquiring sessions.

            Nezumi’s taking out five volumes of Shakespeare’s works when he sees a rectangular box hidden at the back of the shelf. Squinting to get a better look, he reaches in and drags it out. A thin layer of dust gathers on the lid, and dislodging it causes the fine matter to flutter dully in the slanted light. 

            Sheets of paper are stacked neatly in the box and Nezumi knows he shouldn’t read them, knows that they are probably Shion’s personal things and that there are good reasons why he would want to hide this. Nevertheless, Nezumi has always been too curious for his own good and his years spent in West Block has only amplified his tendency to ignore privacy while gathering information to increase his chances of survival. 

            With only a teensy bit of guilt in his mind, Nezumi picks up the first sheet and begins to read Shion’s painstakingly neat cursive.

 

_Dear Nezumi,_

_It’s only been a week since the wall came down, but there are already so many changes taking place. I wish you could have seen it, Nezumi, and maybe then you’d consider staying in NO.6, but maybe that’s just the childish, selfish part of me speaking. Baby Shion (I still think we should named him something else; I’ve grown used to calling him ‘Shi’ now.) has taken a special liking to my mother, which is great because I am helpless when it comes to infants. Ah, I have to go now, so I’ll write to you soon. Hope you’re well, wherever you are._

_Shion_

            So, these are all letters addressed to him. Nezumi feels slightly better knowing that, and he reads the next one.

 

            _Dear Nezumi,_

_Mother has been experimenting with new muffin recipes and flavours, which meant that I had been eating a lot of failed left-overs, but her latest successful endeavour is chocolate banana muffin. You’d probably like it even more than the cherry cake you’ve tasted in Chronos. When you come to visit, you should definitely give it a try!_

_Shion_

_P.S. I kind of miss your Macbeth soup._

            Nezumi chuckles quietly, shaking his head and contemplating of getting some groceries later to make dinner. He digs through to the middle and pick a page – he’ll return to the other entries later.

 

            _Dear Nezumi,_

_There’s a festival at the university I’m currently attending – a spring festival of some sort, to celebrate a new beginning and all that. My classmates insist we should all go out to commemorate the end of final exams. There were food and performances and crafts, but what I was most excited about was the dance that started in the evening. Remember that one time you taught me how to dance? Well, this is a very different type of dance, so the things you taught me were completely useless. But Nezumi, I’m sure you’d have enjoyed it all the same: the lively music, the reckless abandon of the dancers’ movements, the laughter and joy. Though I had a lot of fun today, I still can’t help but remember the weight of your hand against my back, and the way you lead me into the waltz so effortlessly and gracefully; I can never forget how exhausted yet alive and content I felt after that dance with you. I wish we’ll have the chance to dance again soon, Nezumi. I miss you._

_Shion_

 

            He notes the date of this letter – about ten months after Nezumi’s left – and his fingers traced the ink and depression of “I miss you” with reverence. 

            The dark-haired man continues reading the notes – some of them as mundane as a report recording the things Shion had done that day, and some of them just endearing or silly encounters that he had had – until he reaches the bottom of the pile, where he finds pages that are scrunched up or tear up so badly that he had to flatten them out to read. 

            The sun has long set for the evening without Nezumi’s noticing, so he flicks on the closest lamp, the bright white almost blinding him for a short moment, before he settles back on the floor with one of the crumpled sheets in his hands. This one is dated about a year ago.

 

_You know what, Nezumi? Fuck you. Fuck the expectations that you’ll ever return. Fuck your promise (do you even intend to keep it, you asshole? because it’s been a year, you know?). Fuck these feelings I still have whenever I think of you (which is most of the time, and I really hate myself for it, so why can’t I just stop?). I hate you sometimes. Why can’t you leave an address? Then at least I can have some hopes of communicating with you, though that hope might be as false and empty as your fucking promises. Just. Why? Where are you now? Why won’t you come back when I call for you? Maybe you’ve moved on? Maybe you’ve found the true freedom you’ve been searching for so long? Maybe you were right all along: you’re meant to drift in the wind and I’m meant to stay on the ground, and we were never meant to stay together. But… can’t we try, Nezumi?_

 

            “Shion…” Nezumi’s fingertip touches every angry pen stroke and the slashes they left on the paper, and by the end of that note, Shion seemed to have run out of energy – his penmanship becoming weaker and less violent, but what replaced that red fury was much darker and more sinister. Nezumi would know, because as a child, after the flames of his forest home had died and all that was left were ashes and the stench of burnt bodies and rotted memories, that same shadow overwhelmed everything in him. He was blinded by it, controlled by it, and for some time, Nezumi had let that blackness drown him senseless and drag him down. 

            Nezumi would never suspect that his departure had such a strong impact on Shion. He was upset when Nezumi left, but after a few months, Shion would surely pick himself up and continue life as always. Nezumi would like to think that he’s not that important to the always smiling, always optimistic boy, but he should have known better. 

            He really should have known. 

            The bitter, salty taste of his tears always takes him by surprise, but by the time he notices the heat in his eyes and the moisture on his cheeks, Nezumi can’t stop. A tear drop falls onto the paper, blurring the letters together until it turns into a meaningless mess. He puts this note to one side and searches for the next. 

Every wrinkled sheet and every question Shion never asks sends jolts of guilt and regret into his body, and the only way Nezumi knows how to contend with the foreign heaviness is to let them out in the form of tears. 

            When Shion returns that night well after eleven o’clock, he finds Nezumi sprawled on the floor, curled in on himself with a piece of crumpled paper grasped tightly in his fist. A stray lock of blue-black hair falls across his closed eyelids, and he instantly notices the dried tear streaks on his pale cheeks. Scattered all around the man are the letters he has written for the past two years waiting for the recipient to finally return. 

            Shion doesn’t plan on letting Nezumi read them so soon. 

            “So, you found them anyway, huh?” Shion whispers with a poignant smile, kneeling beside the slumbering figure. He gently cards his fingers through Nezumi’s hair; it has been so long. They were vigilant with physical contacts ever since Nezumi moved in, but now, upon seeing the man’s open, defenceless expression in his sleep, Shion can’t help but indulge himself in these simple, light touches. 

            As Nezumi begins to stir, Shion pulls his hand back in alarm and scoots back a little, his face dusted with pink. 

            “Shion? You’re back?” Nezumi’s voice is deep and coarse when he sits up, blinking his drowsiness away. Then, he notices the note still clenched in one of his hands. “Oh shit. Shion, I didn’t mean to – ” He turns to face the white-haired boy, and they almost collide because he isn’t expecting Shion to be sitting so near. “I…” The bright red of his eyes is too close, as if he can swallow him whole. 

            “Shut up,” Shion tells him quietly, and swoops forward to plant a kiss on Nezumi’s lips. The taller man gives a startled noise, wanting to back away to ask questions yet at the same time wishing to be closer to Shion and the warmth of his body. He settles for putting a hand behind Shion’s neck and pulling him in firmly but tenderly, their mouths opening, and any words either have for each other are swallowed for the moment, distracted by a talented tongue or helpless whimpers, fingers dragging into strands of hair, digging into skin and leaving marks that will only deepen. 

            They never had a chance to kiss like this before – slow and burning and vivacious – because their lives in West Block were always on the line, not knowing when danger would suddenly strike its fancy. 

            “Were you crying?” Shion asks in a low voice when they part, his finger drawing invisible lines on Nezumi’s cheek and down his slender neck. There’s no judgement in his tone, and Nezumi never expects there to be any, but even after so many years, he’s still embarrassed whenever he lets his emotions get the better of him. 

            “Did you read all of the letters?” There’s no change in Shion’s pitch.

            “I did.” Nezumi lowers his head, not because he’s ashamed of having read the letters without Shion’s permission, but because he doesn’t know how to face him now that he’s read about Shion’s darker thoughts after he left and how much of an impact he has on this young man’s life. Nezumi’s afraid of how much power he holds when it comes to Shion, just like how he’s scared of the fact that he may never understand the mystery that is Shion.

            When the words return to his mind, like a cloud of darkness and pain dripped in ink, Nezumi shudders, and he places his hands on Shion’s shoulders. Shion gives him a puzzled look. 

            “When I left NO.6, I didn’t intend to come back.” Nezumi feels Shion stiffens, and he moves his hands from Shion’s shoulders to his hands, enveloping them in his bigger ones. “I thought that, after all the shit I’ve put you and your mother through, you’d have enough of me for a lifetime, you know?” He chuckles, but it’s a humourless sound. 

            “But you’ve promised – that kiss,” Shion insists, struggling to pull his hands out from Nezumi’s iron grasp. 

            “I know, and I’m sorry I lied to you,” Nezumi mutters, letting his hands go, and the moment that happens, his skin feels unbelievably cold. “I’m pretty horrible at keeping my word, huh?” 

            “It doesn’t matter,” Shion tries using a cheerful tone but it’s too forced, unnatural. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

            “And if you ask me to leave, I’d understand.” When Shion doesn’t say anything, Nezumi fills in the silence, as if all the apologies in the world can fill up the void of the two years they’ve been apart. “I thought you’d forget about me sooner or later, and move on with life. I didn’t think – I’d never even consider that my leaving has caused you such anguish, and for that I’m truly sorry. I’ll never be sorry enough.”

            “Don’t, Nezumi,” he shakes his head, white hair covering his eyes and he’s shaking. “Don’t you dare fucking start apologizing to me. Do you remember what I said before you left?”

            Nezumi remembers all too clearly – that declaration so resolute, Shion being so convinced of his belief. “You said, ‘The world means nothing – ’”

            “— nothing to me without you. It means nothing,” Shion finishes the statement as he glances up to meet Nezumi’s gaze. The crimson of his irises is vibrant with resolve. “Those words are still true. That same feeling I had for you before you went away is still here.” Shion takes Nezumi’s hand and guides him towards his chest, stopping just below his left collar bone. “It’s never left. I’ve never left.”

            The beat of his young heart is strong and sturdy, a rhythm that rivals the life of the wind. 

            Nezumi laughs feebly, “You really are a foolish boy, Shion. Even after all these years, you haven’t changed a bit. What if I never return? What would you have done then?” 

            “I refuse to answer hypothetical questions,” Shion grins, and Nezumi supposes he’s got a point. 

            “Fair enough,” Nezumi shrugs, and flicks the tip of the boy’s nose lightly. Shion shoves his shoulder playfully in return.

            “But, Nezumi?” Shion’s face turns sombre again. 

            “What is it?” Nezumi traces a thumb across the other man’s cheek; the gesture is uncharacteristically gentle.

            “You won’t leave the city again, will you?” If there’s a sliver of pleading in his voice, Shion doesn’t deny it. 

            “Not as long as you want me to stay.” The unspoken notion of residing in NO.6 means staying by Shion’s side is understood by both men, and there’s a few short seconds of silence in which they take that fact in before Shion tackles Nezumi to the floor and they go down in a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter. 

            “I will always want you to stay,” Shion murmurs as he lowers his head until their foreheads touch. “Always.” 

            “I’m glad to hear it,” Nezumi replies, his silver-grey eyes dancing with soft, quiet happiness that he hasn’t felt for a long time. Without another word, they start to kiss again, lips on heated skin and impatient fingers pulling at loose clothing, and it’s some time before either of them speaks.

 

-

 

            Nezumi wants Shion to keep the box of letters, even though Shion has argued that there’s no use for them now that the intended recipient has read all of the contents.

            “I don’t want to forget,” Nezumi caresses Shion’s white locks affectionately, and he leans into the touch. “I don’t want to forget how much I’ve hurt you.” 

            “Nezumi…” Shion’s voice wavers. 

            “It’s a reminder for myself that I would never inflict that kind of pain upon you again,” Nezumi kisses Shion’s temple, and takes his hand, their fingers clasped tightly together.

            The sweet scent of bread and freshly brewed coffee greets them as they step into the bakery the next morning, and Karan’s cheerful “good morning, boys!” and her warm embrace make Nezumi believe that his change of heart in returning to the transformed city of NO.6 is the best decision he’s ever made.

**Author's Note:**

> MY FIRST NO.6 FIC. Ugh, I swear. No more angst for me. I give myself feels when I wrote the Nezumi meeting Karan for the first time scene. The next thing I write for this fandom will be a college AU in which Nezumi is a theatre major who works part-time in the university’s library and Shion is an ecology major who sucks in English literature but has to take a lit course to get credits so he can graduate.


End file.
